


Book 1: Remnants of Man

by Sda209



Series: From Ranger To Huntsman [1]
Category: Metro 2033 - All Media Types, RWBY
Genre: Action/Adventure, Awkward Romance, Crossover, Disturbing Themes, Drama, Eventual Romance, Forgiveness, Gen, Hope vs. Despair, Multi, Post-Apocalypse, Redemption, Science Fiction & Fantasy, Suggestive Themes, Time Travel, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-31
Updated: 2016-07-31
Packaged: 2018-05-25 11:01:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6192460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sda209/pseuds/Sda209
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>D6 should had been the end... but it was not. Dropped into a world overrun with apocalyptic horrors, a teenage Artyom is forced to adjust into an environment where the rules of engagement radically differ from post-nuclear Earth's―by attending Beacon Academy. But when a simple investigation turns up dangerous implications, Artyom finds himself at the forefront of a dark conspiracy. </p><p>On Indefinite Hiatus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Initiation

**PROLOGUE**

It was then that a man in his forties appeared from the doorway of the long, slightly-arced structure and descended the stairs to meet the group. He saluted Miller, but his stone face quickly gave way to excitement.

"Colonel, you're not going to believe this."

Miller slowly nodded. "Alright, let's go see what it is." He especially glanced at his cadet entourage. "Let's go see whether we found supplies or more WMDs."

Tuning out the foreman's shouting, Miller and his entourage followed Vladimir. They climbed up the short stairs and reached the first room of the structure, which appeared to be, upon closer inspection, a spacious control room. Engineers and scientists alike maintained and experimented with old, dusty panels and pre-war computers at the far left. Farther down at the other side of the room lied a door that lead to similar rooms as far as the eye could see. If he had to guess, Miller thought this entire structure was one giant control center.

However, it seemed Vladimir wanted to show them something else.

"Here it is, Colonel," Vladimir gestured out the window as his grin grew. "A device even I didn't think would exist!"

The three men stared outside the glass window, only to gasp in surprise. A massive elliptical room, the walls and floor constructed from shining steel, lied outside of the control center. In the exact middle stood a towering capsule, highlighted by groups of strong spotlights hanging around the room. It was connected from the top and bottom by massive cables and pipes, with multiple smaller cables and wires of countless configurations running from beneath the structure towards the edges of the room. Eight protruding supports connected the wires together. At the center of the capsule was a cylindrical chamber enough to hold half a squad of Rangers, and the only entrance inside was a pressurized airlock. A small flight of stairs connected the chamber to the bottom floor.

Miller turned his shocked gaze to the former engineer. "Vladimir, what the hell is this… _thing_?"

"That, my friend, is a relic from the old world; a relic that no one thought was possible even at the time of its development. They called it a Time Displacement Machine―'TDM' for short."

In disbelief, Miller’s cadet entourage―Ivan and Grigory―said together, "'Time Displacement Machine?'"

“That’s correct!” Vladimir nodded excitedly before staring out of the window. “And to think it was right here in D6 all along…”

As the Rangers began to comprehend their astounding discovery, a blue butterfly―hanging from underneath the ceiling―fluttered into the vent. If its form could allow it, it would had already smirked in anticipation.

* * *

Pain. So much pain everywhere.

Nothing. An eternal blackness.

Twitching fingers. Hands still intact.

Aching ankles and thighs. Legs still there.

Lingering aches in lower chest. Broken ribs.

Raspy breaths and hot air. Smoke and soot.

Harsh crackles and heavy footfalls. Fires and Reds.

Reds.

Red invasion force.

METRO-wide attack.

D6…

D6 has fallen.

“Secure the perimeter and cover the exits! Stay alert for survivors, men!”

“Save your voice, lieutenant. There are only dead Spartans here.”

With pained gasps and shaky muscles, Artyom rolled on his stomach and forced himself up to his knees. He gazed around, blinking water from his eyes, first spotting the sparking control box lying underneath an overturned table and then to the piles of rebars and debris scattered throughout the flaming ruins. Outside, through the windows (or what’s left of them), artificial blue light contrasted with the orange flames.

Red soldiers filled the room to the brim, their haphazard suits of scrap metal and firearms of pre-war and homemade varieties glowing from the flames’ gazes. A sort of awe flew among them, their heads turning around at the work they’ve accomplished. So many died just to lead up to this moment—this moment of truth. For both sides.

And there he stood, the man who was responsible for the deaths of both Red and Ranger on this day. The flames’s gazes became glares as Korbut shook his head in disappointment.

“Such an unforgivable waste of resources and men… countless soldiers needlessly lost, and for what, Polis? The Council?”

A growl barely escaped Artyom’s throat. How dare he claim the Rangers’ sacrifices to be in vain!

“Oh well…” Korbut shrugged and spread out his arms as he paced around. “All are cleansed by the flames of revolution! Heh, _Comrade Stalin_ would have laughed at this bloodshed.”

Groans alarmed his left ear. Artyom glanced and spotted his colonel in a corner, struggling to flip onto his back. Then his eyes widened with horror. Oh my god, the Colonel’s feet are gone. Right above where his ankles were supposed to be, two bloody stumps of muscle and bone stuck out in their place. Blood had already pooled around Miller’s legs.

Artyom tried to look away, but for some reason his eyes were stuck on his superior’s feet. The Colonel’s not going to survive, even if the Reds take us prisoner.

If the circumstances were different, and this was a different person, Artyom might not had batted an eye, but here the circumstances _were_ different. D6 had already fallen, and the only way to stop the Reds from seizing the WMDs now was to…

Artyom forced himself to gaze at the control box. I cannot let D6 fall to the Reds! The future of humanity—the fate of future generations—now lies within me once more.

But this time, I _know_ what to do.

With a new-found resolve, Artyom began his painful crawl towards the control box. As long as the Reds don’t come here, I might have a chance! Fortunately, the Reds were entranced in their victory, but for how long this would remain Artyom did not know. And he rather not test the length of their awe.

Out of the corner of his eye, Korbut had approached Miller and looked down on him with a sneer. “Ah, what a surprise! Colonel Rozanov, leader of the Spartan Order… or what’s left of you and your brotherhood. How does it feel to be King Leonidas? I certainly feel like King Xerxes in this context, heh heh heh…”

“Artyom,” said person locked gazes with the Colonel for a moment. “I-It is time! Do w-what you, argh, must!”

Artyom nodded back and continued his crawl. The switch is just in sight! Now if I could just keep on crawling further… Damn it, it feels like a demon broke my entire ribcage and bruised my guts!

Korbut’s gaze burned on his back, but Artyom tried to ignore it. “Ah, the resourceful young man, the _Destroyer of Dark_ …” Artyom swallowed his angered response. “No wonder Colonel Rozanov handpicked you to be a Ranger.”

“Tell me Artyom, ‘Savior of the METRO,’” Korbut had came over and propped a foot up on the table, but Artyom wasn’t sure if he saw what he was doing. But it was now or never!

“Just where do you think you’re going?”

His hand gripped the switch. Yes!

Determination further strengthening his resolve, Artyom lifted his gaze up to Korbut and turned it into an intense, deep-blue glare. Mother, if you were only here to see this.

“Going to Hell… and I’m taking all of you with me!”

Artyom twisted his hand.

Within moments, a digital beep ticked down as the entire room shook and scattered dust and smaller debris everywhere. Panic spread among the Reds, realizing death was looming over them, and they spun around. They pushed and shoved each other as they scrambled for the exit, some falling and getting trampled to death while others hopped over their crushed bodies fearing for their own lives. In seconds, though with more squirming bodies added to the blood-spilt floor, the room was vacated.

Grabbing the edge of the table, amidst the carnage, Artyom pulled himself up to his feet and continued glaring at Korbut. How does it feel like to be played at your own game, Korbut? He couldn’t resist shooting a damning smirk at him. Miller must’ve been sharing a similar one as well.

Korbut stared at him before gritting his teeth, much to Artyom’s growing smirk. But then anger became laughter as Korbut shook his head and clapped his hands. What the hell? He wasn’t supposed to be laughing!

“Artyom, you _bastard_ , you truly are the _most resourceful man_.”

“...Fuck you.”

When the beeps screamed out one last cry, a hot, bright light engulfed everything.

* * *

_“Hey, don’t be afraid now Artyom. There’s nothing to fear anymore.”_

_“...Mother?”_

_The bright light faded just enough for Artyom to see. Still, a strange, tingling sensation filled his entire body to the brim. It was nothing like he ever felt_ or _seen. Is this purgatory? Is this what the ghosts of the dead see right after they’ve died? He looked at himself and realized his appearance had remained virtually the same after blowing up D6, only that he floated amidst a black void._

_Approaching him was a sight he never thought to see again. Tall, and fair, she floated towards him like a heavenly angel and cupped his face. Artyom stared into her deep-blue eyes—eyes that were very much like his own. Her long, auburn hair flowed below her shoulders, and her oh-so familiar, gentle smile radiated warmth and nostalgia._

_Could it be? Are my eyes deceiving me? Artyom was at a loss for words. He first thought this person was angel from appearance alone, but he couldn’t shake the thought that this was his_ mother. _Even if he couldn’t see her, even before he heard her soothing voice, he sensed a deep connection out there amidst the dichotomous void of black and white—black, as it was, perhaps, the rules of this dimension, and white most likely from the explosion. This connection, despite being invisible, felt tangible, real,_ controllable _…_ _And so he clung to it as if it would escape him forever._

_“You’ve grown so much since I last saw you, dude.”_

_Dude? Artyom nearly flinched from the nickname. He never recalled his mother calling him that… but then again, Artyom barely remembered anything about her apart from knowing she was a very loving mother._

_“Oh, sorry!” His mother laughed. “It’s a habit of mine, when I was alive, anyway… Someone else called you that, right?”_

_“Pavel…” Artyom spat out that name like it was venom, and yet at the same time it was unsure._

_“It’s good to see you again though,” she embraced him. Artyom returned the embrace, tears streaming from his eyes. It really_ is _mother… My God, maybe Heaven had survived the war after all…_

_“I missed you so much, y’know?”_

_“Y-You have no idea how much_ I _missed you, mother.”_

_“I know that much, Artyom.” He could feel her smile against his hair._

_“But I’m afraid we won’t see each other again for a while.”_

_“What?!”_

_Artyom, breaking his embrace from her, stared at his mother. “What the hell do you mean!?”_

_“I mean what I said.” His mother’s gaze, turned for a moment, became stricken with sadness. “I-I can’t tell you everything, but… Damn it, Philemon, why must you give me so little time for this…”_

_Shaking her head, she turned her gaze back to him once more. “Artyom, as far as I know, you’re_ not _dead yet. I know, that explosion should’ve killed you, but it_ didn’t. _”_

 _Artyom stared at her. The explosion_ didn’t _killed me? But how is that possible! Disbelief filled his thoughts as he shook his head. No, that can’t be, I’m dead, I_ must _be dead, t-there’s no way me or everyone else survived the blast-_

 _Suddenly, his mother began drifting away from him. Eyes widened with fear, Artyom reached out for her, but it was apparent he was receding back into the black void. He tried to scream out to her, but his voice was gone. Then he realized the darkness was_ consuming _him. Desperation fueled his futile attempts to struggle._

_Her voice became more distant as her brilliant light faded into the black void. “I’m sorry...  meet like this… but I’m… meet again...! May not remember… Remember me…! I’m Svet-”_

_Darkness blocked out everything_.

* * *

 

Pain.

Eternal blackness.

Deja vu.

Strange, high-pitched singing.

Lush, ticklish carpets.

Hard, bumpy surface.

Sweet air.

With one deep gasp, Artyom’s lungs quickly set off to work as his heart beated like a piston. His arms, legs, his entire body felt numb and clammy—phantom needles prickling everywhere—yet he willed his neck to move forward. Clenching his teeth from the incessant aching, Artyom kept taking more breaths, only to notice something off. Strange, air doesn’t feel this fresh or… sweet. Not even Polis’s air-filters could produce such a freshness. Where am I? Still, Artyom found himself already addicted to the sweet breath of air with each intake. It was like sugar had taken on a gaseous form and permeated the very air itself. A cool breeze also licked his cheeks and neck. Unlike the winter winds on the surface, it didn’t bite him with bone-chilling ferocity, but it was a gentle kiss that radiated warmth and coolness all over his face and below-

Hold on a minute. There’s a cool breeze… I’m lying against a hard, bumpy surface… There’s something… lush against my hands and legs?... What could this all mean?

...Oh _shit_.

Oh shit shit shit shit shit!

A panic replaced his serene calmness. Holding his breath, even if that wasn’t going to protect much against the long-term effects of noxious, irradiated air, Artyom’s eyes flew open and he tried to scramble for his gas mask.

But a blinding light stung his eyes and Artyom forced them shut. This isn’t good, how did I got on the surface? Did the explosion somehow sent me flying all the way here?

Regardless, he kept his eyes shut and patting his utility belt his hands finally brushed over hard plastic and glass. With a practiced release of the hook, Artyom deftly slammed his mask onto his face and gasped in stale, filtered air. Shit, that was close. A few more seconds and I could’ve suffocated.  Luckily, Artyom’s gas mask’s visor acted like a big pair of sunglasses for him, so he was able to see out of it and stare out into the grey, hostile wasteland before him…

...Only to see towering brown trunks and lively-green, unkempt hair surrounding Artyom at all sides.

Tall and fair, these strange trunks stood like proud people as their slender brown arms stretched several feet across the air―flowers and leaves blooming in complex, yet elegant branches as thick vines hung low from them. Looking down, realizing he was crouching on the ground, a knee dropped, greenest grass numbering in the _innumerable_ crowded around his knee and legs. He turned his gaze up and towards the sky—the bluest, crispest sky he had ever seen. Wispy, billowing clouds lazily floated by over the surface without a care in the world.

Artyom stared everywhere at his surroundings. Where the hell am I? Are these actually… _trees_ ? Real, living, _pre-war_ trees? And this grass! I never knew grass could become this lush and vibrant, not unlike the leaves growing from the branches above me. Wherever he was, a fact was quickly becoming clear to him—this place wasn’t affected by the bombs. Somehow, this piece of forest survived the war and it had remained undisturbed, perhaps, for 20 years, or so Artyom had assumed. If he was actually dead and living on as a spirit, the afterlife was certainly green, for a lack of a better word-

Hold on. “Dead?” I can’t be dead, can I?

He realized he was _told_ he was not. Then it all hit him once more: the fall of D6, Artyom’s final sacrifice, his short time in that… void, and now here. He knew he met someone there at that void, that strange place that bore no name (as far as he knew, anyway—it could’ve been the _real_ oblivion or purgatory for all he knew), but who was… it? “It” told him that he wasn’t dead yet—that the explosion hadn’t killed him—before they became separated, but strangely enough Artyom couldn’t recall its voice or its face. He only recalled the warning it spoke to him before their separation. And its name.

Svet… I don’t think it managed to complete its name before we were separated. Sveta? Svet… _Svetlana_ , perhaps?

An oddly specific Russian name for a spirit, though Artyom supposed that one might had been a Russian woman when it—or “she,” for that matter—was still alive. Oh well. If I’m alive, then I’m alive. Besides, I have more pressing matters to attend to, like…

Perhaps the blast gave him a concussion, but he had to try this. Gripping the straps of his gas mask, even though hard-earned instinct screamed at him _not_ to, Artyom peeled his gas mask away from his face and took in a deep, sure breath. The air passed through his airways and into his lungs without any issue. He exhaled.

The air was breathable.

To a pre-war person, this was probably a fact that was taken for granted, but for Artyom, it took him half a minute to _comprehend_ the results of his experiment. An atmosphere that he could breath in just fine without suffocating? For him, it was _revolutionary_. He broke into a hearty laugh, pressing his palm against his forehead as he tried to wrap his mind around the implications of the results. God damn it all, I don’t need this gas mask anymore! Well, until I cross a radiation hot-zone, but this is amazing! So the entire world isn’t one just massive wasteland after all! He could breath in easy (heh) knowing that the new Earth still possessed some of its beauty after all this time.

“Hey, who the hell’s laughing over there?”

Artyom shut his mouth. Not only he recognized English from that female voice, well, he was sure the voice was feminine—and thank God for all those years in reading books in English in addition to reading and writing in Russian, even if people in VDNkh told him it was useless—the tone was distinctly hostile. Instinctively he reached for his VSV, but all he felt was empty air. He went for his Shambler, but it was the same result. Shit, where are my guns? As the bushes across him rustled loudly, his hand brushed over his custom-made revolver. Good, it’s still in my holster. He deftly yanked it out and pointed the barrel at the bush.

This old revolver, which was given a stock and forend in addition to a longer barrel and a makeshift reflex sight, hadn’t been touched at all during the Battle of D6, so it should be fully loaded. He considered himself lucky to have it on him now when he got here all the way from D6… somehow.

Artyom shot back his own, albeit heavily accented, response, laced with caution. “Who,” he struggled to remember the next words.  “Are you?”  Still, he hoped his English was good enough for a native to understand.

His finger brushing the trigger, Artyom looked down the sight as a figure came out of the bush with a larger gun holstered on its back. Its hands were raised.

“Stand down stalker, I ain’t a bandit; I’m just a student from Beacon.”

Stalkers work all the way out here, as well? He wasn’t complaining, but the mentioning of a place called “Beacon”—what he thought to be a place, anyway—had him on his toes.

Ignoring the strange name, Artyom slightly lowered his revolver and locked eyes with the figure’s curious, yet cautious, green gaze. Those eyes belonged to a young woman, although she seemed a little young to be an adult. She was remarkably pale, with a fair face and complementary short, brown hair that fell a bit below her shoulders. Bangs flanked her cheeks, but none fell over her eyes; instead, they were all cut short and ran in a straight line. Her fatigues consisted of a jacket worn over body armor (from what Artyom could see, anyway), cargo pants lined with multiple pockets and worn combat boots. Ammunition bags, a waterskin, a few grenades off to the side, and a handgun holster, handgun included, hung off a utility belt wrapping around her waist.

If Artyom had to guess, this woman was a stalker herself. At the very least, this one was definitely _not_ a hapless wanderer. Then a thought popped in his mind—what if she was a member of one of the METRO’s few military stalker groups? Most of them had ties with the Rangers, as many of them were former Rangers themselves, and they often helped them out in times of need. Perhaps Artyom was lucky enough to run into one.

At least the girl was trying not to kill him, if she was not trying to deceive him already.

Reluctantly, Artyom lowered his revolver and let its barrel point to the ground, but he still kept a tight grip on its frame. It would be best not to be caught by surprise if this girl was, indeed, attempting to deceive him.

He kept a stone, cautious gaze on her at all times. “What stalker group you are from?”

“Les Krovi Stalkers, from a village in Forever Fall. What group are _you_ from?”

For Artyom, he considered the implications behind her answer better beyond all belief; not only stalkers were apparently operating outside of Moscow, they also had formed _groups_ all the way out here. Of course, Artyom had never heard of the Les Krovi Stalkers―in fact, he could very well be on the outskirts of Moscow, or somewhere else in Russia entirely―but he found “Red Forest” to be an intriguing meaning for the title of the girl’s stalker group. Still, the words “student” and “Beacon” rang warning bells in Artyom’s mind. Something was nagging him that they were important to remember.

On the other hand, so far, this stranger had yet to execute Artyom’s hypothetical trap. “Actually, I am,” What was the word to describe the Order’s members again? “Ranger. Ranger of the Spartan Order from Polis Station.”

“Uh,” the stranger raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

Artyom blinked in surprise. This girl doesn’t know who the Rangers are? But, I don’t recognize this forest as well, so maybe I’m not anywhere _near_ Moscow. That could explain why this one hasn’t heard of us at all… if _that_ ever makes sense. He shook his head. “Never mind that. Can you,” he pursed his lips and carefully thought his next half of the sentence. “Tell me where I am?”

The stranger raised another eyebrow. “You’re not a student here, are you…?” Lowering her arms, she stepped out of the bushes and crossed her arms. “Okay stalker, I don’t know if you know this, but you’re trespassing on private property. Actually, forget about that―how the fuck did you managed to get in the Emerald Forest anyway?”

She first pointed at the ground, and when Artyom followed her finger he realized she was gesturing towards the various debris from D6, ammo boxes, bullet casings and weapons strewn about the area. Artyom pursed his lips. If this girl isn’t from the METRO, then this is going to be _difficult_ to explain to her.

“Also, what the hell happened to you? You look like you got used as an alpha beowolf’s personal _fuck-toy_.”

“Alpha beowolf?” He did not recognize the name, but whatever it was, Artyom assumed it was a mutant variant that wandered these woods and led packs of its lesser kind. Nosalises had a similar hierarchy, if one counted the broodmother as their “alpha,” and watchmen had pack leaders to lead them in their hunts on the surface. Though, he hoped these beowolves were not _more worse_ versions of the nosalises _and_ watchmen.

Moments later, after some careful thinking, Artyom responded. “We were lost. Last night, we were attacked. Somehow, I am the only survivor.”

“A guard for a caravan, huh…?” The girl slowly nodded, her stance shifting, as if she understood his answer. “Well, that definitely explains why there’s a shit-ton of powder guns and ammo all over the place.”

Once again, Artyom blinked. That’s new. I never heard of someone using the word “powder” to describe guns and bullets before. For now, he ignored the strange wording and began gathering a few guns that were still in shape. He found the presence of the METRO’s weapons and ammo to be convenient, but there was a lingering thought in the back of his mind that he wished there were bigger guns and bullets in the pile. Since he was outside of Moscow, it was not unlikely the mutants of the forests, if more variants existed, could be tougher than the mutants of the irradiated Russian capital.

Taking a silenced VSV with a scope and laser, a Shambler with an extended barrel, three magazines of pre-war rounds (Artyom thought people outside of METRO might use a different currency, but just to be safe he gathered up four magazines of dirty rounds), some thirty-odd homemade buckshot shells, three syrettes for his personal medkit, two pipebomb grenades and one incendiary, Artyom filled his ammunition bags with the rounds and clipped his grenades onto his utility belt before slinging his VSV onto his backpack, his revolver back into its holster, and armed himself with the Shambler. It was not the best setup he was provided with, but it was better than walking out there without any weapon whatsoever. Hopefully, most of the fauna out here had no interest in eating humans.

Artyom wished the little Dark One was with him, though. At least he would have a familiar companion with him on this lonely journey. Speaking of the Dark One, it seemed that the child thought he could not forgive Artyom for what he did, even after Artyom demonstrated forgiveness.

Just as he finished reloading his Shambler, the sharp cracks of gunfire, followed by deep, loud groans, as if someone was throwing nothing but grenades at the enemy, entered his ears. Artyom frowned. So much for hoping not to shoot almost everything today. This hapless Ranger, apparently, can’t seem to catch a damn break. He silenced his thoughts and stood up, letting pleasurable snaps sound out from his joints.

Strangely enough, the girl did not seem to frown at the distant fighting. “Well, at least the Grimm will be occupied.” She pulled out her gun―an unusually large shotgun with a foregrip and drum barrel―and flicked her head towards her intended direction. “Let’s get moving, stalker. Whoever you are, keep behind me, don’t anything fucking stupid, and _don’t wander off_. Hopefully, we can get this Initiation finished up before a Grimm offs you, or, say, some girl accidentally beheads you with her absurdly large scythe.”

“Err,” While Artyom was dubious on whether or not the last part of the girl’s sentence was true, he still had yet to introduce himself to her. “I am Artyom.”

The girl was too focused on pinpointing a direction, presumably the direction to something she considered important. “Henriette. The ‘Hen’ is silent, though, so it’s like saying ‘ _awn-riette_ ’ instead of ‘ _hen-riette_ ,’ you understand?”

Before Artyom could nod, a girlish scream pierced the air. Looking up at the sky, he tightened the grip on his Shambler as Henriette cursed under her breath. “Someone’s dying, already?”

All thoughts of concern were washed away when a _terrifying_ screech destroyed the air itself. Artyom could not recalled any animal associated with such a terrible cry, and he prefered not to meet whatever made that screech. Dread tingling his spine and muscles once again, Artyom turned to Henriette in hopes of finding out if she had a plan of action.

Henriette gazed at Artyom, her face unusually blanched. “We need to get the _fuck_ out of here. Now!”  
Gesturing for him to follow, Henriette spun around at a direction to Artyom’s right, but frantic footfalls came out from his left. Both of them glanced and spotted a shapely figure sprinting through the forest as fast as its legs could carry. When the figure finally came closer, Artyom’s eyes widened. It was a young woman, much like Henriette, only she seemed taller and fairer. Her long, crimson hair whipped around in fright as her strangely-forged bronze breastplate, red long-skirt, and bronze boots (Artyom thought he saw stilts underneath the balls of her boots for a second) occasionally flickered from the sun’s scattered gaze. But her most distinct features were her spear and shield―gold-and-crimson-trimmed, their designs were nothing Artyom had ever seen, but then again he he had never _seen_ a real sword and shield. Such weapons were virtually non-existent in the METRO.

She crashed through the shrubbery and slowed down near the two. The woman’s wide emerald eyes quickly flickered between them. “What are you two doing!? _Run_!”

A series of loud, heavy scuttles, falling trees and the ever-growing vibration underneath their feet was more enough for Artyom and Henriette to snap out of their momentary trance and run. Surprisingly, they ran slightly ahead of the crimson-haired warrior, but another, closer terrifying screech later and they all ran twice as fast.

Artyom kept his gaze at the front, fearful of gazing upon the form of whatever nightmare was pursuing them. Whatever it was, the beast must had been big―big as either the bear he once fought, the nosalis broodmother, or much larger than the both of them _combined_. He shoved through branches and leaped over fallen trunks and ditches, his heart pumping adrenaline and blood every half-second, as he sped by trees and barely evaded any that stood in his way. The woman soon ran ahead of him and Henriette, but she still kept her speed relatively similar to theirs.

In moments all three ran out of the forest and into a wide open field. Across was another forest, which was possibly part of this entire region. Looking around, panic began rising in Artyom’s throat. Why the hell did we ran out here?! Are we going to face the beast out in the open like this?

Henriette and the woman still kept running, much to Artyom’s relief. He followed them to the left and then spotted their apparent destination―in the distance, a structure reminiscent of Stonehenge from the old pictures stood at the end of the field, surrounded by trees at nearly all sides. Artyom could barely see, but he thought he spotted more figures at the ruin. One of them seemed to grow a bit larger, then a large blur went over its head and, presumably, behind it when a massive blast shattered the air for the fourth time and the figure almost instantly became bigger.

Before he could identify the stranger, another screech came from behind―only this time, the beast seemed to be looming over them. Against his better judgement, Artyom glanced over his shoulder as a _massive_ monster burst out of the forest and scuttled after them. His eyes bulged in horror. What the _fuck_ is that thing?! It was a giant spiderbug, big as a entire building, and had white chitin, its black skin armored underneath, and ten angry red eyes. Its golden stinger shining underneath the sun’s glare, the spiderbug snapped its pincers twice before breaking off into an unholy-fast sprint that surprised Artyom.

Terror immediately filled his heart. We need _bigger_ flamethrowers.

Another screech arose from the distance. He gritted his teeth. Goddammit, another one!? This time, a great bird came out from the forest’s horizon and soared over the field, its own form blocking out the sun for a single moment. Like the spiderbug, its feathers were black while its face was adorned with the same white armor. Even its eyes were just as angry as its arthropod counterpart.

When the bird reached a certain point, it released another deafening screech and flapped its wings once in a powerful display. Simultaneously, a hundred giant black feathers shot out halfway in its flap and pinned the area like needles. Artyom leaped onto the ground and ducked his head for cover while Henriette and the woman had dispersed a fair distance away from him.

By the time barrage stopped, the spiderbug had already caught up behind Artyom unharmed. Artyom, rolling onto his back, pointed his Shambler at the beast’s eyes and let out two explosive shells. Their buckshot glanced off its chitin like steel, doing nothing more than incurring another screech, one that spoke of wrath.

The spiderbug raised its stinger within moments and hovered it at Artyom’s direction. Gasping, he scrambled to his feet and prayed to God that thing had terrible aim.

A gust of wind rushed past him, followed by a high-pitched yell and the clash of metal-against-metal. Once again, Artyom took a quick glance and saw a young girl blocking the spiderbug’s stinger with a _giant, red scythe_ . This one could not been older than fifteen, and yet she stopped the spiderbug with _ease_. Her red cape shimmered in her struggle as the girl grunted against the might of the monster. They were engaged in a battle of attrition―one was going to overpower the other, and it was obvious who the victor was.

Without warning, the spiderbug shoved the reaper girl away like a doll and approached Artyom like a predator about to pounce on its prey. Artyom realized he was gawking the whole time and tried to run, but the monster’s stinger smashed into the ground in front of him and pulled out a plume of dirt and rocks. Shielding his eyes, he fell back onto the ground and wildly let loose all of his shells on the spiderbug’s face with a desperate yell. When his Shambler clicked, he opened his eyes and saw the stinger speeding towards him. Death was come for him with a vengeance―a furious, venomous vengeance.

He shut his eyes.

Only harsh cracks pricked his ears and a biting cold nipped his neck and cheeks. A quiet moment passed. Had I… died again?

Artyom slowly opened his eyes, lowering his arms from a defensive shield he instinctively made, and looked around his surroundings with a wide gaze. Somehow, a wall of _ice_ had formed around him in a crescent shape and trapped the spiderbug’s stinger, which was now just a few inches away from his face-

He scrambled backwards as his heart went to full overdrive. Breathing erratically and fearfully, Artyom stared at the encased stinger, wondering how someone was able to freeze the monster’s tail, then at the massive spiderbug struggling to pull it out of the ice with little avail. It screeched furiously, yet for the time being it remained harmless. Despite the impossibility of the situation, he released a deep sigh of relief.

A pale, open hand appeared in front of him. Without question, Artyom accepted it and the hand helped him up to his feet, but then he locked gazes with another girl―icy eyes, a deathly-pale complexion, and certainly a cold stare to boot. Her short hair, tied in an asymmetric ponytail, was like the snow permeating Moscow’s streets in the winter time, and even her oddly-designed dress and boots―clothing fit for a fairy tale princess―matched her own hair. If it were not for the hideous scar marring her right eye, Artyom would had thought this lady was angelic in appearance.

“Hmm,” The snow-haired girl carefully inspected Artyom, as if checking for wounds. “You don’t seem to be harmed, or at least you haven’t received more wounds.”

Artyom stared at her. “Uh,” How could one possess the appearance of an _ice princess_ in a land devastated by nuclear war? The stalker girl doesn’t seem out of place, but then there’s the other girls with their strange weapons and armor from legends of fairy tales. Who the _hell_ are these people? “ _Thank you_?”

She returned a confused stare. “I’m sorry, I’m not well versed in Old Northern Atlesian. But, you’re welcome…?”

Realizing he spoke in Russian, Artyom shook his head and tried to correct himself. However, Henriette, the warrior girl and the scythe-wielder ran up to him, the first breathing a sigh of relief.

“Dammit kid, I thought the deathstalker had done you in.” Henriette spat at the spiderbug, although Artyom raised an eyebrow at her apparent nickname for him. “Well,” she crossed her arms. “The fucking nevermore nearly got us, to be fair…”

“Hey,” the youngest girl turned to Henriette. “You know him?”

“Oh, him? He’s my,” Henriette slightly shifted. “Partner. I’m just glad the heiress here got to him before the deathstalker splattered him all over the ground.”

The ice girl seemed to growl at Henriette’s flippance, but relented. “His aura ran out?”

“Well, whatever the hell banged him up when I found him surely must’ve.”

“Excuse me?” Everyone turned to the crimson-haired warrior, who pointed her spear at the ruin. “Let us discuss this later. As of this moment, it would be best to retrieve our artifacts now so we can return to Beacon at once.”

With a nod, the girls pointed to the ruin and took off. Artyom barely caught up behind them, his mind still in the midst of processing today’s recent events as he reloaded his Shambler. (24 shells left.) Mostly, he was wondering where these young women had come from. Artyom could take a guess with Henriette and say her family might had been from France, but the others were lost on him. One strange detail he noticed was that everyone here, even Henriette and her gear, somehow, stood out in bold, flashy colors as if they were making a statement. At least he could easily tell which one was which, but their reasoning for wearing such provocative clothing was lost on him. Maybe it represented their government that unifies their people? Do they like standing out? Or perhaps they were a religious bunch… but then what is to say their beliefs _do not_ involve kidnapping unsuspecting travelers and sacrificing them to some false god via draining their blood and cooking them for eating?

The five reached the ruin, where Artyom realized that the structure was bigger than he originally thought. Its mossy stone floor, engraved with intricate designs, was shaped like a circle, forming a spacious plaza in the middle. Amidst pillars jutting at the edge of the circle, a few of them upholding the remains of what could had been this ruin’s roof, 24 pedestals lined halfway around the ruin in, if one were to look from above, a vaguely-crescent shape. The left half of the pedestals held white pieces of some sort, while the right half held black pieces. Artyom had saw those pieces before in a bar once―two old men were playing a game on a board with it, and when he asked them what they were playing one of them replied “Chess.” That was where his knowledge of the game ended, however. He had no idea the purpose of the pieces, neither the story behind their forms. It must hold _some_ special reason for these pieces to be so intricately different in appearance.

Five others stood around the plaza. Two were a pair of girls with complementary colors―black and yellow―while another pair, an eccentric girl and a quiet young man, were across them and lost in their own world. A lone young man just turned away from a pedestal and threw a white horse piece at the scythe-wielder; Artyom realized the boy was holding a white castle piece in his hand.

Some of the pieces were missing to his curiosity. On the black side, two pieces of a tall, slender shape with spires like the Kremlin’s own in the old pictures were absent, plus a pair of tower shapes. While the white side still had those spire pieces, it also lacked the tower pieces. The white horse pieces, one of them in the scythe-wielder’s possession, were notably absent, as well. Although, both sides had a few other missing pieces.

Henriette came up to a pedestal and grabbed a white piece for herself―a tall shape with a crown. Artyom recalled that piece being used in the old men’s match as a factor in a decisive victory, but he no had idea why these children were out here collecting game pieces. Even more confusing, and perhaps intriguing, was Henriette mentioning she was a student of “Beacon” earlier. Maybe these children were also students like her. It seemed that whoever was running this region had the children’s future in mind.

That still left Artyom in the dark about their weapons, and those monsters they fought.

Clearly, Artyom could deduce these children were training to fight these strange creatures. What was not adding up for him was the fact that all of them possessed strangely-designed weapons (with the exception being the blonde boy’s sword and shield, as far as Artyom knew anyway) and their even stranger clothing. Did they _wanted_ to be spotted by these things? Also, he noted that _someone_ froze the spiderbug’s tail―a feat that Artyom deemed an impossibility until now. And that scythe-wielder―how was she able to reach him so fast in so little time? That scythe and the blasts from earlier might had something to do with it, but as of now Artyom was not sure how the girl did it. Even these beasts were not like anything Artyom had seen before: one of them was the biggest spiderbug he had ever seen while the other looked like a raven resized into the size of an old-world airliner jet. But the strangest detail about them was that their color schemes were practically identical; they may adopt different forms, but they’re far from being independent creatures. Maybe these beasts were, and he could not believe he was thinking about this, _unified_ as a single group.

No, that’s not possible. Artyom shook his head. Watchmen and nosalises are always competing against each other, and the demons don’t care what they catch as long as they get to eat. Even the lurkers are indiscriminate in their food. Why would _these_ mutants have any reason to work together?

He was not sure, but Artyom was already starting to feel a build-up of dread in the pit of his stomach, particularly from his own questions spawned from what he had witnessed minutes ago. He was reluctant to answer them at all, for fear of uncovering a terrible truth surrounding this region’s inhabitants. Whatever it was, Artyom knew _for certain_ that something felt off about this region and its denizens―the denizens he saw so far, anyway.

“Hey.” Turning to the greeter, Artyom’s blue eyes locked with silver―an eye color he had never even _conceived_ of. The scythe-wielder was looking Artyom for some reason, but then he realized his uniform was torn and splotched with blood in several places; some of the blood was his own, but the majority of the stains belonged to fifteen different people, both Ranger and Red alike.

She looked at him worriedly. “Are you alright?”

“I have been through worse.”

“Oh, well,” The girl scratched her neck. Artyom found it odd she was having difficulty speaking, but then again she was a child. “Glad that you’re, erm,” she tried to smile, but it came out awkward. “Alright. I-I’m Ruby.”

Ruby? I’ve never heard of that word being used as a name before. Artyom nodded back regardless, though he still kept his stone gaze. “My name is Artyom.”

Before Ruby could speak, an authoritative voice called out. “Has everyone retrieved their pieces?” The warrior girl glanced at the group, Artyom included, for confirmation, and they, aside from Artyom, who stood there confused, all nodded back. “Great! Let’s get out of here before-”

The same piercing screech bounced through the ruin, drawing everyone’s attention to the sky. Circling around once again, the great bird seemed to be looking for another opportunity to strike them group unawares.

“-Before the Grimm return.”

“That nevermore’s circling back,” the blonde boy swallowed. Artyom noticed his hands tightly gripping on his sword and shield.

One by one, everyone ran out of the ruins and through the forest. The ground was unusually uneven and hilly, forcing Artyom and the others to slow down a bit and navigate over the terrain. Another shriek from the sky; the great bird was following them. Another screech, followed by immediate tearing and shattering of ice; the spiderbug was free.

Reaching the hill, they came out to a very wide, open and rocky space surrounded by great square pillars; their tops were connected by thick stone bricks. The ruins were old and decrepit, yet they had stood against the test of time. However, part of a pair of pillars on their left was buried in a mound of earth. Artyom had spotted the sharp edges of the great cliffsides looming ominously over them, which framed the tip of an abandoned stone tower.

But a massive, winged shadow soared over them and the demonic bird perched itself on the tower. At once, Artyom slammed his back against one of the frontmost pillars as Henriette took position beside him; the warrior and her blonde partner slammed against the left side of the pillar. He spotted Ruby and her buxom companion across them, parallel to their position.

Leaning over, Artyom gazed upon the great bird’s hateful glare, ignoring his own growing dread. I don’t think _any_ demon could match this monster’s fury. Then a deafening screech pierced the air once more and Artyom barely clamped his ears shut.

“Hey!” Sensing a firm grip on his shoulder, Artyom glanced and locked eyes with Henriette. “You alright?”

“I-I am fine!” Artyom waved her hand away as he shouldered his Shambler. “I just was not expecting that screech!”

It was a lie. The _hate_ brimming in the bird’s screeches terrified Artyom more than unexpectedly-loud noises.

The earth shortly rumbled, then trees were torn apart from their roots as Artyom glanced over his shoulder and saw the spiderbug returning with a vengeance. Pincers snapping once more, it shrieked and broke into a maddening scuttle.

First out was the warrior and her partner, then in moments Henriette yelled for Artyom to follow and dashed out. Artyom quickly trailed behind her, his Shambler frantically swaying with his arms. He heard bellows behind him and explosions in front of him―sneaking a glance he saw great _pink_ explosions bursting around the giant bird. When he looked at the front of them, he realized they were running straight for the bridge.

Despite covering fire, the giant bird swooped down and landed in front of the bridge. It flapped its wings and with a furious shriek sent everyone flying back into the middle of the space. But Ruby, her buxom companion and those from behind were already forming a circle.

He rolled over on his stomach and pushed himself up, then helped Henriette to her feet as the spiderbug flanked the eccentric girl’s rear, but black and green blurs leaped behind her and deflected its pincers. Artyom stared for a moment, shocked by their inhuman speed and choreography, but he shook his head.

Shouldering his Shambler, sensing weaved ice crystals and directed explosions over his shoulder, the spiderbug sprung its stinger towards him. Artyom sloppily slipped backward and shielded his eyes from the erupting dirt.

Wind and speedy footfalls breezed his skin followed by a grunt and shotgun blast. Artyom lowered his arm and watched as Henriette nimbly danced on top of the spiderbug’s exoskeleton and pelted fiery buckshot on the base of its tail.

All expectations of a bloody massacre were purged from his thoughts as Artyom continued staring. How are these children capable of such _superhuman_ feats?

Scrambling back to his feet, Artyom shouldered his Shambler again and blasted the scorpion's face; each slug forcibly kicked back his shoulder. Out of the corner of his eye, the warrior dropped a knee, shouldered her own crimson-golden rifle and shot off a series of red bullets as if it were an automatic. (Where’s her spear? Or, he tried reconsidering his assumption, is that spear actually her _rifle_?)

To his horror, the buckshot and rounds reflected off of its chitin. But the spiderbug was immediately enveloped in a maelstrom of colors. Lowering his Shambler, Artyom couldn't track anyone through the motion-blur. He growled. Damn, I don’t want to shoot one of their heads off. Artyom shook his head and shouldered his Shambler once more, the recoil buckling his tight arms.

Breaking out an angry screech, the spiderbug shoved the blonde boy and the eccentric girl like tiny insects. Like glass, its legs quickly broke off the clambering ice restraints. Artyom's eyes widened in horror. Are we even doing _anything_ to this damn thing? He found their weapons and techniques impressive, but if they had trouble denting that spiderbug's armor…

Another breeze flew by him and then the buxom beauty shattered the scorpion's pincer armor with a fist; even from this distance Artyom felt the shock wave. How the hell can someone be that strong _and_ fast at the same time? He watched her cartwheeling away from an retaliatory stinger that became encased in ice. Are these kids even _human_?

Suddenly a screech blasted his back, then a powerful grip plucked Artyom off the ground from his shirt. Shit shit shit, the demon bird got me! He barely held onto his Shambler as he flailed around, a creeping fear driving his muscles crazy.

"F-Fucking demon bird, let go of me you bastard!"

From above, he watched Ruby turning to the blonde as if she was shooting out orders. Moments later the blonde nodded, then turned to the eccentric girl, her quiet companion, his warrior partner and Henriette and began shouting orders.

As the eccentric smashed the spiderbug’s armor, Henriette and the quiet man shooting off its stinger, Artyom struggled underneath the bird’s vice-like grip. Shortly he spotted the black-haired girl furiously slashing the bird’s torso in black blurs. A speeding bullet then struck the bird’s stomach before Ruby’s buxom beauty leaped backward from the icy shrapnel erupting from the constant breaking of the bird’s ice restraints. But then flames instantly took place of its dichotomous half and seared its feet, legs and lower body.  
Then an idea struck him. Deftly, Artyom unhinged two of his grenades in one hand and lit their fuses in another. Sniper rounds leaving blackened holes in its torso, Artyom feeling the vibrations from here, the bird bellowed and inadvertently freed its prey. He latched onto its feathery neck and threw the grenades down into its throat with all his might. Then he climbed topside, swung himself onto its neck and immediately unleashed six slugs into the bird's spinal cord, ignoring the black blood and muscle spraying his face.

But he was not finished. Switching his Shambler with his VSV and slapping a magazine full of pre-war bullets into its chamber with deft hands, Artyom slammed the barrel onto the demon bird’s wound and let his arms ride out the ensuing recoil, ignorant of its pained cries. When he pulled back, he admired the deep, nasty wound he created.

Just he slung his VSV for his trench knife, he felt a massive vibration underneath him, then his weight started growing lighter. With one last pained cry, the demon bird began collapsing onto the ground. Artyom held on tightly as he could, his weight quickly becoming lighter by the second.

The bird’s body slammed against the ground, sending out a miniature earthquake through the ruins. When all the force had finally disappeared, Artyom threw himself onto the earthy ground and almost kissed the dirt. Quick, sharp breaths were pulled into and out from his dry lips; he was just ecstatic to finally stand on solid ground again.

At once, worried footfalls scurried in front of him, then a short shadow loomed over Artyom’s head. “Artyom, are you alright!?”

Sensing Ruby’s concerned gaze, Artyom lifted his head and nodded. “I will live, but thank you for your,” What was that word again? “Concern.”

Ruby pursed her lips, but then she gave a big smile. “I’m just glad no one here got hurt!”

Then a hollow, desperate howl drew their attention. Turning to the spiderbug, their eyes widened as the monstrosity, stripped of its stinger, which laid uselessly stuck on the ground, and eyesight, its eyeballs punctured, closed or missing, collapsed on its own growing weight. With one final bellow, Henriette, the quiet man, his companion, the blonde boy and his warrior partner retreating back, the spiderbug became limp, its tail falling to the side with a lifeless thump.

A peaceful silence shortly settled in.

Then it was shattered by Artyom’s boisterous laughter. He slammed a hand on his forehead as everyone else began cheering and yelling victoriously. I survived. By God almighty, I’m _fucking_ alive!

But as these students congregated around each other, engaging themselves in exchanging compliments and thanks, Artyom’s hearty laughter quickly turned into horror. Before anyone even noticed his despair, he fell silent and stared at the children. Their smiles, their applauses, their boost-in-confidence, it was typical of teenagers who succeeded something together―well, anyone would have done that especially in the METRO―and yet, Artyom could not overlook their _abilities_ . He could not divert his mind away from that detail alone; all of its resources were focused _just_ on that.

All of these children, even Ruby and Henriette themselves, were _superhumans_ . Earlier, Artyom saw some of them transforming their weapons―he even saw the icy princess _creating_ those flames and ice―and it seeded fear and uncertainty into his heart. How are their weapons so _advanced_ ? Where did they even _get_ the knowledge, the tools and materials to make them? He could not find himself celebrating anymore―caution and alertness had took place of joy and mirth. To use such weapons against monsters of that size… He had to wonder how much of the war had drastically changed the world. If Moscow had to pay its air, its animals, its plants and its buildings in exchange for the survival of 50,000 people, he shuddered to think of the costs this region had to pay just for its inhabitants to survive the bombs. Wherever he was, Artyom was certain he would not come out of here the same ever again.

He brought his knees up with his arms and buried his face between them, releasing a tired sigh. Where the hell in Russia did I _end up_ in?


	2. A New World

Winds lightly shuffling his black business suit, Ozpin carefully watched the scroll’s screen as his students reveled in their victory. The newcomer was, strangely, sitting on the ground, knees bunched near his chest and his head between his arms and knees. There had been stories of Countrylanders, especially those who lived quite far from the kingdoms, who reacted badly to those possessing an aura, but Ozpin found this one strange. While his outfit, torn and bloodied in many places, as it may, was not out of place for a stalker, Ozpin did not recognized its woven insignias―one was imprinted on his helmet and the other was patched on what could be an ammunition pouch. The newcomer’s knife holster, what Ozpin presumed to be one, anyway, had text also patched on its leather―he barely made out the characters since two bullet holes marred its skin, but Ozpin thought he saw Old Northern Atlesian.

Not only some of the details surrounding this newcomer were strange―most of the old languages in Atlas had gone way of the ancients, so its current national language, apart from Valic, was Modern Atlesian―but his appearance in the Initiation was stranger in of itself. Ozpin was not certain how this young stalker was able to enter the Emerald Forest, and he was certainly not convinced of his answer of being the sole survivor of a lost caravan―the mountains surround the Emerald Forest at nearly all sides, which meant that the only way into the region barring a treacherous climb was through the academy. And it was common knowledge outside of the kingdom that this region was private property for Beacon; even if a caravan lost its way, they would had _recognized_ the mountains of the Emerald Forest from a fair distance away.

Perhaps this young man was a spy working for Ironwood. But Ozpin found that unlikely, for he knew the general had no reason to spy on his allies. After all, they were all cooperating and working towards the same goal.

Ozpin hummed before taking a sip of his coffee. How did this young man managed to gain access to the Emerald Forest? The Grimm would had eventually taken notice of his presence if he had traversed the mountains, as their numbers in the region are quite substantial to begin with. Pursing his lips, Ozpin switched from the camera feed to a recent report from the local sensors. Throughout the Emerald Forest, specially-designed motion sensors from Atlas, hidden in unreachable places (to ensure the Grimm would not find them), were laid out for the purposes of tracking the Grimm; it was also used to track students during Initiation and training sessions. If this young man had, indeed, triggered the sensors during his supposed trip last night, then this report should either contradict or corroborate with his story. Though he reviewed the report before, Ozpin admittedly had been in a rush to prepare the students for Initiation, so he had little time to give an extensive look at the data; all he knew up to this point was that the Grimm had been thinned enough for the freshmen to handle.

As he looked at the data, Ozpin raised an eyebrow. That is most certainly strange. All the sensors picked up very strong readings, right around the time I was giving instruction to the students before sending them off. Actually, that reminded him, there was an unusually strong interference around that time, when Ozpin tried to access the cameras after he launched the students, but the feeds were unusually too distorted. Looking back on it now, he realized this interference would not had been in the report he skimmed over before Initiation, so at least it was not on Ozpin’s negligence that he had not heard of this interference before.

Still, looking over the data from last night, last night’s sensors had picked up nothing _but_ Grimm. Nothing to indicate the presence of multiple people and slow-moving wagons or trucks.

This is most peculiar, indeed. Could this interference have something to do with the newcomer, who had interacted with my students during the fight? Ozpin sighed as he sipped his coffee once more. There were too many unanswered questions and he rather not jump into conclusions immediately. At the moment, it seemed best to hold a conversation with the young man himself. He debated informing the rest of his faculty members of this newcomer, but decided against it. (Though, he did forward a private message to Glynda’s scroll of this development―speaking of her, she was probably at the bottom of the cliffs, waiting for the students to return.) No need to give them more to worry about than necessary, especially since the school year was just beginning.

Switching back to the camera feeds, Ozpin continued watching the students and newcomer as they made their trek back to the cliffs.

* * *

Artyom had composed himself by the time Henriette called out for him to follow the group. At once, he tailed behind them, preferring to stay in the back as these superhuman students chatted away of their most recent accomplishment. They spoke highly of their own abilities, as if they had never performed such feats before; to Artyom, this was beyond mind-boggling. If these students were claiming they were amazed at their own victory, he shuddered to think of those who graduated from whatever school they attend. (Was it this “Beacon” place they mentioned previously?)

There is also the matter of where he was in Russia. It seemed like civilization existed in this region, and they had the fortune of building a dedicated educational institute, unlike in the METRO, but he was still in the dark of where he was in relation to Moscow. For all he knew, Artyom was on a different world entirely, but he found that unlikely… at least he hoped that was the case. Also, he had to wonder if the radioactive fallout had not fallen on this region of Russia (if this continent was _even_ Russia) to allow for all of this nature to develop without interruption. As far as he could tell, there were no obvious signs of radiation drastically altering the flora―though he could not say the same for the fauna: especially the people of this region and some of its animals. That brought him to an extremely important question―had the radiation, however minimal, changed this region’s denizens? Is that why these students were capable of superhuman feats and how fell beasts like the ones they fought earlier evolved?

Just when he lost himself in his thoughts, he felt a nudge from his arm. Artyom glanced at Henriette, who fell behind and was walking next to him.

She pointed her eyes at the group in front of them. “Surprised these guys managed to pull that shit off? Yeah, they actually caught me off guard when they started fighting the Grimm.”

“B-But,” Artyom did nothing but stared at her in shock. (Though, he kept in mind that these people called those monsters “Grimm.”) “You were able to perform superhuman feats a-as well!”

Henriette kept her gaze at the group’s backs. “I’ll admit, I’ve only just unlocked my aura a couple days ago. I was just trying out new things with what I could and couldn’t actually do. That whole me using my shotgun to propel myself and using my aura to help me run around that deathstalker? An idea I just thought up of on the spot. Never really went to combat school for,” she gestured at her fatigues. “Obvious reasons.”

And she said that word again― _aura_!

“If you don’t mind me asking,” While Artyom found no reason to be anxious about asking this question, barring his own curiosity about “combat schools” and “deathstalkers,” it only made him feel more like a foreigner. “What is _aura_?”

“You live _that_ far from civilization?” Henriette glanced at him with a raised eyebrow, but shook her head. “Um, okay, how do you say this,” She paused for a moment. “Aura is like the manifestation of your soul, ya’ get me? It protects you while also enhancing your abilities, meaning with aura, you can jump fairly high and run faster than the world’s fastest person by a longshot. That’s what everyone here, including me, did apparently.”

“It,” Artyom stared at her, somewhat disturbed by the new information. “Enhances you?”

“Seems to be the case. That’s all I know though, so you’re better off asking someone who’s more qualified than me.”

Artyom pursed his lips for a moment. “Where are we heading to?”

“Beacon Academy. That’s where me and my peers here are attending. Let’s hope we can settle this mess with the headmaster.”

God, I hope it would turn out that way. Falling silent, Artyom found himself with more questions than answers. How did this aura came to be? The METRO was weird in that it was full of unexplainable supernatural phenomena―well, Khan seemed to be an expert with such things however―so he did not found it unlikely a similar occurrence is happening here as well. Only, it apparently benefitted the people here tremendously.

The walk to wherever these people were taking him had been silent on his end; they had yet to run into more of the beasts, fortunately. Though Henriette still remained at his side, she too fell quiet. All in the while, Artyom was just trying to get a sense of what he was possibly going to face in this region. If these monsters were big as buildings, then there was no way he could combat them alone; even the nosalis broodmother and the mother bear were not _that_ massive. He would need something like a missile just to kill these things, or, more realistically, a team of superhumans by his side. That, apparently, seemed to be the only way to have a chance against these “Grimm” creatures.

If- No, _when_ he returned to the METRO, maybe Artyom could tell everyone of this place and prepare for a mass-exodus out of Moscow-

“Hey.”

Artyom turned to the new voice and met silver eyes once more. It seemed that Ruby had fallen back a bit and joined him in his and Henriette’s walk.

“Um,” He might as well be speaking with the Grim Reaper herself, if the Reaper was a little girl with an impossibly-huge red scythe. “Hello.”

“So,” Ruby gently swayed her head sideways. “I haven’t seen you around the cliffs. Did you woke up late or something?”

God, how could I tell this girl the truth without sounding like a crazy hermit? “You could say that.”

Ruby chuckled. “Wow, that sounds rough. That would’ve been me if Yang hadn’t forced me to wake up- “Oh,” she glanced at him. “You don’t know who Yang is, right?”

“Who is ‘Yang?’”

“My sister, over there.” Following the direction of her finger, Artyom laid eyes on the yellow-haired girl’s back. He looked back at Ruby, who had black hair with fringing crimson and silver eyes; Artyom then looked at Yang again and locked blue eyes with purple. She winked with a lick of a tongue, and Artyom, cheeks flushed, quickly turned away from her. Is Ruby’s sister trying to flirt with me?

Artyom received his answer when he glanced at Ruby. “Yeah, my sister’s a bit,” She shot a disapproving glance at Yang’s way. “Of a player. But she really isn’t all that bad, she just likes having fun!”

Depends on what kind of “fun” you’re talking about, Ruby. “You two don’t look related.”

It was then that Artyom received no response. For a moment, he thought Ruby’s attention was placed elsewhere, but after a minute he suddenly began worrying for her. Artyom glanced at her and watched her staring at the ground. Had I said something wrong? Upon closer inspection, he realized those silver eyes lost all of its vibrancy and warmth―replaced by emptiness, the look of someone who lost something.

Not uncommon in the METRO, these days.

However, this glaring chink in Ruby’s proverbial armor disappeared in a half-second as Ruby turned to him with a chuckle. “Yang’s my half-sister, but she’s the best big sister you can ask for!”

Artyom nodded, though he noted her momentary weakness. In the METRO, everyone wore armor to mask their true feelings―even Uhlman himself, while at the Nazi-controlled Black Station, had the look of a tired soldier when Artyom told him his companion, Pavel, was gone. Even to this day, Artyom had to wonder if that Pavel was a good friend of Uhlman. In a different time, maybe those two would had been childhood friends even.

And here, it seemed that this was no different―Ruby was an especial case.

Ruby opened her mouth, but then a mature voice called them out: “Students, I am glad to see all of you have returned safely.”

Artyom turned his attention to the voice and spotted a tall, middle-aged woman standing at the bottom of a slope. The tallest woman he had ever seen, even with the black heels she wore over her long stockings, she stood tall with her back straight and with a stern gaze covered by her eyeglasses. Her white dress shirt, purple cape and black skirt told Artyom she was probably a worker of some sort for Beacon.

When he looked up, he realized they all arrived at the bottom of a steep cliff, which towered over everyone by at least fifty feet. Looking back at the slope, he realized it was a series of carved ramps that ascended to the top of the cliffs. Must be manmade.

The woman held her hand out as the students placed their collected artifacts into her hand, Henriette included. However, she turned her gaze towards Artyom, much to his discomfort.

“Sir, you and your ‘partner’ are requested at Professor Ozpin’s office at once. It is a matter of utmost importance, and I am certain you know why. Please come with me.”

Artyom glanced at Henriette, who returned a cautious glance. Even Artyom found himself suspicious of this strange request. How did these people know I am coming? They might have spotters for all he knew, but in a region where the nuclear radiation had not a significant enough of an effect to be an issue, unlike in Moscow, they must had other means via technology.

The woman turned to the other students. “As for the rest of you, you have completed the Initiation. The inauguration ceremony will begin as soon as the Initiation is completed, so please wait in the amphitheater until then.”

“Ms. Goodwitch,” Ruby raised a hand as her peers, Artyom and Henriette excluded, began walking away. “Are Artyom and Henriette in trouble?”

Goodwitch glanced at Artyom, as if confirming a theory, before glancing at Ruby. “No, they are not Ms. Rose. Professor Ozpin,” She paused. “Needs to discuss with them concerning their enrollment in Beacon. Don’t worry, they’re not being expelled for faking their transcripts or any of the sort.”

Artyom swore he heard an anxious cough from the blonde boy, but Goodwitch gestured for him and Henriette to follow as Ruby quickly ran back with her group. (Though she shot one last worried look at them before heading off.) For a little while, the three tailed behind Ruby’s group, presumably in the same direction to where this “Beacon Academy” was. He was not sure what to expect, to be honest, considering he had only seen the famous academies and universities in the old pictures. Was there a little-known, but well-off academy at this part of Russia that survived the bombs and became the settlement for the survivors of this region? Artyom touched the butt of his revolver, but he removed his fingers away and let his hand fall to the side of his hip; no need to alarm the others now, especially if they trusted him not to do anything crazy.

Some minutes of walking later, Artyom was starting to wonder if they were going to reach the academy at all when _spires_ sprouted from the tree-tops. Though barely visible, a well of anxiety already began forming in Artyom’s stomach. Imagination quickly filled his imagined appearance of Beacon, but as the spires revealed itself Artyom immediately realized a _towering_ structure laid in the middle of the surrounding spires. As far as the eye could see, it spanned all the way up into the clouds. Was there a building out here like that in Russia?

Then he saw it. Coming out of the forest and into a clear, open field, Artyom’s jaw slacked as a magnificent _castle_ stood before him. Walls separated nature from the inner compound, which must had spanned miles all around, if Artyom had to guess, as buildings inside rose at least three-stories high. Guard towers were built between a central gate and more could be seen as far as Artyom could see to both his left and right sides. As for said gate, its steel bars looked clean and pristine, as if they had been forged and tempered yesterday. At once, the gates opened, allowing entry for everyone.

Coming out of the gate, however, was another woman. This time, she seemed younger than Goodwitch by a few good years and looked distinctly Asian, if Artyom’s one-time visit to Chinatown Station was anything to indicate. Dressed in a clean, professional laboratory coat, khaki pants and brown boots, after waving at Ruby’s group she greeted Goodwitch and told her she was informed to take her place while Goodwitch took the students (Artyom and Henriette) to Ozpin’s office. The young woman waved at the duo; both of them waved back, though Artyom was not sure what to make of her. As quick as she came, she left in a hurry.

Goodwitch led the two through the gate. Amazing as this Beacon Academy looked on the outside, Artyom was surprised the campus was grander. As far as the eye could see, there were fields around dotted by multiple groups of buildings. Roads and pathways zigged-zagged everywhere like a complex, yet elegant puzzle. To his left, an especially great amount of buildings congregated what Artyom assumed to be a good portion of the campus―a living space, perhaps? To his right, the buildings, though congregated, varied in shape and size. One of them was a giant observatory of some kind, which towered most of the buildings. Artyom presumed this area to be a place for learning.

The three walked down the main path from the gate and straight the field. Hundreds of students, wearing what seemed to be Beacon’s uniforms, of shapes, colors and ages went about their business―the sheer amount of diversity _alone_ surprised Artyom. In fact, he almost fell behind just because he was staring at a girl’s purple hair or a guy’s red eyes. Even he found himself looking at the flowers and various species of grass growing around the roads and pathways like a child visiting a forest for the first time. A few times Henriette had to call him out to catch up and, in spite of his embarrassment, did. (However, Artyom thought he saw Goodwitch tapping into that strange, smartphone-like device she held in her hand, but thought nothing of it.)

Soon, after ascending two short, but wide stairways, they arrived at a plaza of some sort. Street lamps and benches littered the place as students too, here, went about their business. But Artyom was more entranced by the looming tower standing before them. Its circumference must had been larger than Ostankino Tower’s by a fair margin, but he was definitely sure this tower was _far_ taller than Ostankino by a quarter of a mile. They entered through one of the double doors, which, to Artyom’s surprise, was automated, and went through the pristine, floor-waxed foyer. Passing by chairs, coffee tables and the whole reception area, they took one of the elevators at the front of the tower and began their ascent.

The ride to Ozpin’s office was nothing short of nerve-wracking. When they reach the top of this massive tower, Artyom was finally going to get his answers about this region and, hopefully, directions to return to Moscow. Personally he would prefer to live here, but as a Ranger he had a duty to protect the people of the METRO from the mutants. Or, perhaps, he could try negotiating a deal with whoever was in charge of the region for a massive emigration? Still, it was going to be tough to move the entirety of the METRO to this region, not to mention the Reds, Nazis, bandits, cults, and anyone else who had gone mad would greatly complicate matters. And that was assuming anyone believed Artyom _at all_.

For those several minutes, the thick silence threatened to drive Artyom mad.

A low hum sounded out as the golden text “OZPIN’S OFFICE” appeared on the above black screen. When Artyom felt his weight stopping and the elevator doors finally opening, he immediately felt a stoic, calculating gaze upon him. To say this gaze was worse than Miller’s was an _understatement_.

Sitting behind a strangely-designed desk of cogs and gears, his seat sharing a similar motif, the presumed headmaster himself stared at his guests, especially Artyom. He swallowed as he, Henriette and Goodwitch stepped out of the elevator. Looking around, two halves that could create a great circle if attached together were placed at the opposite ends of the office; they both contained slow, methodically-spinning gears and cogs. Even looking up, Artyom spotted what might as well be the mechanisms for a cuckoo clock―a machine of massive gears, cogs and other strange contraptions above the entire office, separated by a glass ceiling. He pursed his lips in confusion. What are all of these machinery needed for?

“Ah,” The headmaster smiled enigmatically, his hands folded beneath his chin. “I see that you’ve brought Ms. Baudelaire and her,” He gestured at Artyom. “‘Partner’ here, Glynda.”

Glynda nodded at him. “As you’ve instructed, sir.”

Artyom and Henriette wordlessly approached the headmaster’s desk until they stood at arms-length away. Adrenaline pumped throughout his veins as his heart panicked, unsure of what to expect from this meeting. This headmaster was simply one man, and yet his mere presence was enough for Artyom to have his guard at all times. Even Korbut, despicable as the Red intelligence officer may be, had not made him feel this tense.

“Before we begin,” The headmaster turned his gaze to Artyom, much to his surprise. “Do you know who I am, stalker?”

Reluctantly, Artyom shook his head.

He nodded, as if confirming something. “I see. I don’t find that surprising, considering that Countrylanders like yourselves often live outside of the kingdoms without a fair knowledge of its inner workings. In that case, my name is Professor Ozpin, headmaster of Beacon Academy. I shall move on to my next question, stalker: where are you from?”

“Moscow,” Artyom replied automatically. This Ozpin did not necessarily asked him what he was doing at the Emerald Forest before being dragged into this Initiation, plus he only told Henriette he was a guardsman, so he felt comfortable enough to divulge where he came from. “I am a Ranger of the Spartan Order, sworn to protect humanity from monsters and mutants.”

Ozpin hummed while Henriette and Glynda shot curious gazes at Artyom. If this place is an academy, he reasoned, do they not teach their children of the geography of Earth?

Or maybe, just maybe, Artyom found himself in a Communist school. (Artyom, you crazy bastard, do you really think the _Reds_ have extended their reach all the way here!?)

A moment later, Ozpin shot a questioning look. “I’m afraid I have not heard of this ‘Moscow’ settlement, neither of your ‘Spartan Order,’ Mister…?”

“Zaytsev. Artyom Zaytsev.”

“...Mr. Zaytsev. Glynda, Ms. Baudelaire, can the both of you confirm his words?”

Henriette shrugged. “Never heard of this place before in all my life- Well, I haven’t heard a name like that sprouting up in all my years of being a stalker. He told me the same thing, and I never heard of his group before. I would’ve known if Moscow was the name of a new village that was founded, and subsequently his Spartan Order―word would have spread like wildfire at that point. But honestly, ‘Moscow’ sounds like a place in Atlas to me; Moscow, I think, is Valic for some word in Atlesian.”

“ _Old Northern Atlesian_ , Ms. Baudelaire.” Glynda corrected as she tapped and swiped the glass of her large smartphone. “There are only a few places in the world that share the word “Moscow.” All of them are located in Atlas. Moscow appears to be the name of several villages in the northern frontier, including one major town some hundred miles away from the kingdom. Also, as far as the kingdom’s databases go, no stalker group titled ‘Spartan Order’ had been officially registered.”

Artyom shot a confused gaze at Glynda, but then _dread_ began overflowing the pit of his stomach. “May I,” He hesitated, wondering if he really wanted to go with this. “See the map of world?”

Ignoring his grammar error, Glynda nodded and, a few swift fingers later, handed Artyom, though she voiced her curiosity for the strange request. Artyom noticed Henriette and even Ozpin leaning closer, the latter anticipating for a reaction. Regardless, Artyom gazed at the smartphone’s screen, fearful of what to see.

Then his eyes widened in horror.

No. That can’t be… N-No… _No_!

Artyom threw the smartphone at Ozpin’s desk, earning cries from Henriette and Glynda, as he backpedaled away from the offending device. Eyes widened, breaths raspy and erratic, his heart pumping with shock as adrenaline filled his veins to the brim, Artyom relentlessly shook his head.  That’s a lie, that can’t be true, I-I can’t be on another _world_ , t-that’s impossible! Is Uhlman playing some kind of sick, twisted joke on me!?

Still, he had a strong feeling this was no joke at all―that he was literally the first human on Earth to step into an alien world. If he had came from a world where the war never happened, Artyom might had considered this to be an accomplishment for humanity, but he did not.

Anger replaced horror as Artyom threw out his VSV and pointed the barrel at Ozpin’s stoic face. Though the headmaster remained unfazed, Artyom heard Henriette pointing her shotgun at him and Glynda, well, he had no idea.

“What the _hell_ is this?!”

He pointed at Glynda’s smartphone showing the map of this strange world. The map differed almost completely from a map of Earth in that the continents were of radically differing shapes and sizes. Although this map had five landmasses like Earth, it had far fewer islands in comparison. The biggest one was shaped like a thick, imperfect crescent, if its right tip was slightly taller than its left tip, and took up a good space of the map. To the north of the continent’s western tip lied a winged dragon-shaped continent possessing a more-perfect, crescent-shaped harbor, which served as the base. Northeast lied a snow-covered continent with an inland sea, taking a rough appearance of a slanted glider with a thick outline of its rider. To the south was another dragon continent, only this time it was wingless and seemed more serpent-like in its shape. To to south lied a small, lone, mostly desert continent reminiscent of a nation on Earth notorious for housing Earth’s deadliest animals. No continent paralleling Antarctica could be seen at the south of the map, however.

“Hey, no one needs to die today!” Henriette barked. “Put that gun away now, stalker!”

Even if Artyom was horrendously outmatched and outnumbered, he still demanded answers. “Where am I? Who are you? Is this joke? _Answer me, you bitch_!”

Whether Ozpin understood Artyom’s Russian or not, he still remained stoic. It only infuriated Artyom.

“Mr. Zaytsev,” Glynda’s voice was solemn and cold. “I advise you to stand down. _Now_.”

Artyom snapped his gaze at the middle-aged woman, who brandished a crop at him; a moment of contemplation later, he pointed his VSV at the floor, but still kept his finger on the trigger.

“Please,” His voice too was solemn. “Tell me _where_ I am.”

Glynda raised an eyebrow, but her stance remained firm.

However, Ozpin answered for her. “You are currently on the continent of East Vale, in the borders of the Kingdom of Vale, inside my office of the kingdom’s Cross-Continental Transit Tower, the date being Monday, the 16th of March, Year 1998 A.D.―“After Dust,” as it is publicly known―and the time being currently 2:34 PM, 20 seconds.”

Artyom slowly turned around to lock gazes with the headmaster. To his surprise, Ozpin still remained as stoic as ever, even after Artyom nearly shot him. Glancing back at the others, Henriette and Glynda still trained their weapons on him, though they seemed more relax now. Artyom felt somewhat guilty for allowing his anger to dictate his actions, so in an act of rebuilding trust he removed his backpack and placed it on the floor of front of Glynda, along with his revolver, incendiary grenade, trench knife, and VSV. Even if they planned on arresting him on the spot, Artyom thought it best to give up his weapons now, considering the situation he found himself in.

He turned his gaze back to Ozpin just as he catched a surprised glimpse from Glynda. “I am sorry. I hope you understand that,” Artyom took another deep sigh. “That I have been through very rough day today.”

“I can most certainly tell,” He chuckled, much to Artyom’s surprise. Then it became stoic once more. “Still, I find it strange that you don’t seem to recognize the map of Remnant. Mr. Zaytsev, are you certain you were not afflicted with a concussion when you woke up?”

Artyom shook his head.

Ozpin nodded, then he turned his gaze at his backpack. “Do you mind if you show me a map, if you are in possession of one? Surely, a stalker like yourself carries one at all times, do you not?”

I know where you’re going with this. With a nod, Artyom kneeled down and fished out for a map of Earth he kept in his backpack. Although he kept a map of Moscow and the Moscow Underground in there, he kept a map of Earth mostly as a way to make himself memorize the places in the world whenever he had downtime. When he fished it out, Artyom placed the map on Ozpin’s desk and rolled it out for all eyes to see.

The others leaned over and saw the map; unsurprisingly, they gazed at Artyom with inquisitive looks.

“I don’t recognize this map _at all_.” Glynda pursed her lips.

Henriette, slinging her shotgun on her backpack, whistled. “Shit, I never seen anything like this before. You sure you didn’t fashion this yourself, Artyom?”

To their shock, Artyom shook his head. “This is a legitimate map. I possess this map for learning the names of the countries and the continents when I have downtime.”

“What do you mean by that?” Henriette raised an eyebrow. “You saying you don’t even know your _own_ map?”

“That is,” Artyom sighed. “A different story for another time.”

Ozpin himself leaned over and gazed at the map Artyom presented, intrigue filling his eyes. It was possibly the second emotion Artyom had ever seen from him apart from his chuckle, but that still did not erase away his discomfort in the slightest.

“I see, so my suspicions were correct.” He nodded to himself before straightening his posture and facing Artyom. “Ms. Baudelaire, Glynda,” Ozpin paused, pursing his lips. “While I personally find this difficult to believe―and I have seen multiple examples of truth being stranger than fiction in the course of my entire career as a huntsman―I have, unfortunately, arrived to the conclusion that our guest here is _not_ of this world.”

Though Artyom saw this coming a mile away, he still felt his shoulders slumping in defeat. He really was on a different planet after all. How such a notion could be possible was beyond him, but he knew that the explosion at D6 was a factor in his arrival. Or maybe it was a stroke of luck Artyom was even here at all.

As for Glynda and Henriette, they had mixed reactions: the latter shook her head in disbelief as she pinched the bridge of her nose, muttering “This is the strangest shit I have ever seen, and I’ve seen _strange_ shit out there,” while the former stared at Ozpin in shock, then turned her stare towards Artyom as if he had grown two heads. Even Artyom himself had a difficult time believing Ozpin’s words, but, as he learned from Khan, it was more than likely that they rang true.

“With all due respect, sir,” Glynda turned her stare back at her superior. “How is that even _possible_?”

Before Ozpin could answer, Henriette glanced at Artyom. “I knew there was something off about you when I ran into you back at Initiation―and I’ll admit, I thought you being a caravan guardsman was a shitty lie―but this? This was the _last_ thing on my mind.”

Ozpin took a deep breath for a moment. “I don’t see any other reason for why Mr. Zaytsev here does not seem to recognize the map of Remnant. While I could understand his lack of knowledge of the kingdom and its resident academy, the fact that he is virtually unaware of the existence of the _other kingdoms_ , _academies_ , even _continents_ , to me, suggests two possible conclusions: that Artyom is in need of serious medical care immediately, or he is, indeed, telling the truth. Him showing the map of _his_ world confirmed the latter.

“Also, Glynda, do you remember the message I forwarded you earlier?”

Glynda nodded, then her eyes widened. “Are you suggesting that-”

“Now now, let’s not jump into conclusions.” Ozpin raised a hand. “The electromagnetic interference our sensors and scrolls picked up appeared right after we launched our students, and, if I had to guess, _before_ Artyom appeared. Perhaps after the interference completely died down was _when_ Artyom appeared in the Emerald Forest.”

“Wait, you say you guys had an interference, right?” Henriette received nods from the both of them. “Well, while I was flying in the air, my radio was acting weirdly there. Didn’t think of it at first until it started acting up really badly. Thought it was gonna short-circuit on me there, but thankfully it didn’t. Now that I think about it, if there was an interference, and your scrolls and sensors picked it up (by the way, how the hell did you get those sensors up in the Emerald Forest?), have you checked with the other faculty’s scrolls and even the entire CCT as well? Something powerful like that couldn’t have been an isolated case.”

Ozpin smiled. “Perceptive, I see. Qrow was not mistaken in giving you the admission papers to Beacon.”

Returning to his solemn gaze, Ozpin tapped several keystrokes on his blue keyboard that Artyom realized was see-through and summoned a transparent screen showing two windows: the left showed a chart of data for the aforementioned sensors, and the right screen showed a different chart detailing data usage for the entire kingdom―its line showed a steep, sudden and jagged slope at one particular timestamp before resuming to normal levels in the next one.

“Before you three arrived, I’ve taken the liberty of reviewing data usage for the CCT tower and it seems that it corroborates with the interference from earlier. If I may comment, I think the whole network went down for a few seconds.”

Henriette stared in shock. “The whole _fucking_ network?!”

Shooting a disapproving glare at Henriette, Glynda shared a similar stare. “Professor Ozpin, what are we exactly dealing with, here?”

“I am not so sure. If I had to guess, the strong interference is the result of an anomaly that brought our guest here.”

A silence settled in the office as everyone digested the information presented to them. Revelations made, Artyom stood at his spot, pursing his lips with crossed arms as he spotted Henriette pacing around with a hand on her hip and the pinch of the bridge of her nose, Glynda crossing her arms and shaking her head, and Ozpin lightly rubbing his temples. Seconds turned into minutes while silence maintained its dominance. Whatever hope he had of returning to Moscow was stomped out in a matter of minutes. Of all the occurrences to happen to him, both not happened and already happened―whether it be falling into a lurker hole, getting hit by a ghost train, being betrayed by a well-intentioned Red Major, and saving the little Dark One― _this_ had to happen to him. Artyom could had fallen into Hell itself and that would had paled in comparison to where he was now.

“What now, headmaster?” Artyom broke the silence, earning everyone’s eyes. “I am stuck here, possibly for good. What can I do now?”

Ozpin’s lips turned into a smirk, unnerving Artyom. “Considering your… ‘murder attempt’ of an academy headmaster, I think a proper _punishment_ is in order.”

Goddammit, I knew that was going to bite my ass sooner or later.

But his next words shocked everyone:

“Artyom Zaytsev, by the power invested me, as headmaster of Beacon Academy, you are hereby enrolled in my school as a first-year freshman and as Henriette Baudelaire’s official partner, _effective immediately_.”


	3. Acclimation

Incessant beeping stung his ears. With a low groan, Artyom lazily lifted his arm up and smashed his hand on the digital clock’s snooze button. Retracting his arm, he buried himself further into his covers and released a sigh. Finally.

Then firm hands planted on his back and furiously shook him. “Hey, wakey-wakey Artyom! Come on, you lazy ass, get up! Don’t make me use the whistle again.”

Goddammit, Yang.

With a moan of protest, Artyom reluctantly rolled himself next to the edge of his bed and hung his legs off the edge. Planting his feet on the cold, wooden floor, Artyom, with a stretch and yawn, made his way into the bathroom, brushed his teeth, showered, and came out drying his hair while wearing his Beacon Academy uniform. It took him a few days to notice, but Artyom realized he looked considerably younger of face than normal. There was also the fact that he was also shorter than Yang by a good two inches, which left him around Blake's height. He was not sure what to make of this change, but he thought little of it; Artyom was not sure of his exact age or height, anyway.

The others were already up and about by the time Artyom had came out, so the next one to enter the bathroom was Blake. 

"I will go on ahead." He spoke out to everyone and received nods in response.

Artyom, adjusting his tie so that it would not constrict his neck, went outside of the team's room. Fucking ties, whoever invented them is clearly the one who invented hanging.

As he went down the hallway of the dormitory, slowly filling to the brim with students from their teams' rooms, Artyom checked his old, rusty analog watch: 7:16 AM. Best to head to the dining hall now before classes start.

His mind began wandering about, mostly to the fact that a  _ month _ had passed since Artyom had arrived to Remnant. Even today, it was difficult for him to believe that he was attending an academy for hunters, much less receiving a full education in the first place. (Well, he thought he was receiving one, anyway, but Beacon's library was very informative.) And it was all because Professor Ozpin sought it fit to "punish" Artyom by sentencing him to a full enrollment in his school. From his experiences, he was starting to wonder if Ozpin was truly serious about his words.

On that same day Ozpin enrolled him into his school, Artyom was taken to the inauguration ceremony. Due to an uneven number of freshmen, Artyom and Henriette found themselves temporarily assigned to Team RWBY until two more students happen to become available. Apart from the fact that he was, for all intents and purposes, the lone male of the extended team, he cannot help but feel Ozpin had made this arbitrary decision for different reasons. Still, in his time as temporary member of Team RWBY-2, he found his experience to be interesting.

Ruby was a very eccentric, lively and adorable 15-year old who had an obsession with weapons. Unfortunately for Artyom, she regarded his firearms as "hunks of junk," as he quickly found out she was disdainful of any and all weapons from the Countrylands―which happened to include METRO-made firearms. Still, she was very shy most of the time and possessed virtually little charisma, or ANY social skill, whatsoever. She often hung around with Yang, her older sister (and, regrettably, Artyom's "admirer"), mostly due to her social ineptitude. Ironically, Ruby had spoken with Artyom the most, if only because she was the second person he spoke to that did not only involved working together.

As for Yang, to put it lightly, Artyom  _ despised _ her. He quickly learned on their first night in the team room that Yang was a flirt  _ and _ a horrible comedian rolled into one. Puns and terrible pickup lines, all designed to score a hot stud like "Artyom," (made more embarrassing when one realizes Yang literally stated those words in front of Artyom) that make Uhlman look like a world-class comedian- Actually, Artyom thought Yang was  _ Uhlman Incarnate _ , and in a terrible way. What he found most embarrassing about their relationship, however, was her incessant attempts to flirt with him. Every accursed wink, every (un)witty quip, every stupid pickup line, every blatant attempt to "seduce" him (which typically involved playing sexy jazz music in inappropriate times, wolf-whistling whenever he was not wearing a shirt, hell, there were times when Yang walked around the dorm wearing nothing but her  _ undergarments _ ), and even that  _ one _ time-

Realizing his clenched fists and furrowed brows were drawing attention from the other students, Artyom took a few deep breaths and relaxed himself. Calm down, I don't need to make a scene. Besides, at least Yang doesn't do that shit everyday.

Out of everyone in the team, Blake was the quietest. She spoke little and only when necessary, and often times one can find her reading books on her bed, while sitting, or sometimes on a tree (Blake's excuse was that she climbed trees and buildings a lot when she was a kid). And out of everyone, Artyom enjoyed her company the most―mostly because Blake was an avid bookworm like himself. As such, their conversations were always spoken in books. It was from her alone that Artyom read excellent titles and learned more about Remnant, and because of that Artyom could consider her a friendly acquaintance. They may not be friends, but they do share a common interest that could, at least, be shared together. (There were times, however, when Artyom found Blake hiding under her sheets in rather precarious positions, which, he thought at those times, seemed uncomfortable for reading, but he thought nothing of it.)

Weiss, to Artyom anyway, was essentially Anna 2.0, except that was also, strangely, not the case in some instances. Of course, she was melodramatic at times and held fierce disagreements and disdain for Ruby, but Yang tended to break up these fights at once. Such fights rarely got out of hand, but when they do it only deepened the divide between her and Ruby. As a person, Artyom could not tell much about her beyond having a short temper, possessing an arrogant disposition, and being very uptight. But it was clear to everyone that Weiss was against the idea of Ruby being team leader, and Artyom would had dismissed it as pure jealously if it were not for the fact he knew everyone wore their armor. Perhaps someday there will be a chink in Weiss's armor and her secrets will be revealed for the world to see.

His partner Henriette reminded Artyom of Bourbon, but only for a little bit. Sure she smoked outside on the dormitory rooftop and drank Mistrali wine from her hip flask whenever no one was looking, but she was a solitary creature that made her more like a stalker than anything else. Henriette had a habit of carrying a weapon with her at all times, and she was a bit jumpy, especially when Yang tried to surprise her once and nearly got her head blown off, but Artyom found that behavior all-too familiar, considering where he came from. To the others, they found it unusual, but for Artyom, it was homely in a way. Even Artyom had not broken his habits of carrying weapons with him at all times, and he was still jumpy every so often. They do not speak much, but there was an understanding between them that acknowledged they came from places where their circumstances were (frighteningly) similar.

She was also the only one to know of Artyom's true origins. Ozpin had made it clear  _ not _ to reveal the revelations made in his office―for now, anyway.

If Artyom had to summarize his social life, it would be that the only person he ever really spoke to on a constant basis was Ruby herself. He and Blake spoke through books, he avoided Yang, he was not sure what to think of Weiss, and Henriette was... Henriette. Otherwise, he was just as reclusive as Blake.

But then there were the sparring classes. Oh God, the  _ sparring classes _ .

Whenever Tuesdays and Thursdays came up, Artyom always dreaded heading up to that arena and fighting one of the students. Although Ozpin unlocked Artyom's aura―the Professor was surprised that Artyom possessed an aura, as he theorized a human from a different world might not have one―he quickly found out that auras were like an entirely new set of muscles for him. The reason these hunters could run at superhuman speeds and hit with strength far surpassing of heavyweight champions was thanks to their profuse usage of this strange force; it even protected the user from harm. Still, he utterly lost in his first match, his opponent being Yang (though to be fair, Yang had her place in the top ten fighters of the freshman sparring classes), as he also quickly found out that one just possessing aura does not equate skill and expertise in utilizing it for combat. (Incidentally, that match sent Artyom into the infirmary for the rest of the day.) Out of everyone in the freshmen class, Artyom was probably ranked the lowest in fighting capability, underneath the second worst one. (Jaune Arc, if he remembered his name correctly.)

Other than the sparring classes, he found his time in Beacon to be the most educational and wondrous he had ever experienced.

Words could never describe his wonder when he went out to Vale with this team for the first time. Words could never describe his surprise when he tasted actual, pre-war food for the first time. Words could never describe his shock when he saw gigantic airships lazily floating over the city for the first time. Words could never describe his amazement at the technology of Remnant when he was introduced to the holocomputer and scroll for the first time. Words could never describe his excited epiphany when he realized he was going to live in a world free of nuclear war, possibly for the rest of his life.

Words could never describe his sheer  _ disbelief _ of being in this situation at all.

Still, in some ways, Artyom sort of missed home. He did hope to return to Earth one day and, perhaps, either find a way to bring the entirety of the METRO to Remnant or, more realistically, as he was beginning to learn here in Beacon, try to bring some form of unity between all the stations. At the very least, everyone would be working together to ensure the METRO would become safer and more manageable by the time the radiation settled.

Artyom frowned. If it were only not a pipe dream.

Finding himself at the doors of the dining hall, Artyom entered the great building and fell in line. He got himself sausages and eggs, juice and an apple before taking a seat in Team RWBY-2's usual spot. They still had an hour before classes start, so he should take the opportunity to enjoy his breakfast while he still could. It was Tuesday today, and that meant sparring classes.

Maybe I should consider skipping class.

* * *

Dammit, dammit, dammit!

Breaths heavy and raspy, muscles worn and tired, Artyom shouldered his VSV again and quiet rounds shot out. Jaune broke off into a charge with a scream, longsword raised as sparks blew off the heater shield. In moments, the VSV clicked and Artyom cursed before raising his VSV like a spear and broke off into a bayonet charge. 

Glares bouncing off blades, the knife and longsword clashed with a clang and the momentum pushed Artyom and Jaune together. In a battle of attrition, Artyom summoned all of his aura into his muscles and forced himself onto the lock, but Jaune's strength retaliated with ferocity. Quick as the lock started, Artyom's arms already started buckling from the sheer aura-infused force.

Then Jaune shoved Artyom's VSV away and bashed his head with his shield. Artyom flew off and skidded on the cold stone floor, a buzzer screaming out. 

God- _ fucking _ -damn it. 

He weakly craned his head to his right and saw a short, red bar underneath his portrait on the large holoscreen. To his left, he spotted a longer, green bar underneath Jaune's portrait. Artyom groaned with a grimace, his muscles aching from the sparring match, as he spotted Ms. Goodwitch walking down from her spot to the front of the arena.

"As you can see students, a single man armed with a gun is typically no match against a huntsman on a one-on-one fight. Now, if Mr. Zaytsev had the support of, say, eleven other gunmen operating on evasive fire-and-maneuver tactics, and were equipped with explosive munitions, they could potentially whittle down Mr. Arc's aura long enough to neutralize him."

When Ms. Goodwitch shot a glance at Artyom, he winced. "But obviously, Mr. Zaytsev does not possess that kind of support. Please Mr. Zaytsev, it is best if you adjust your tactics accordingly. This may be acceptable in Atlas Academy, but here you are training to become a hunter, not an AIST. Besides, most Grimm do not operate in coordinated groups; such tactics would only end in failure.

"As for today's final announcements, the quarterly demonstrative-exams will be coming up in less than two months, so please plan accordingly. After the end of the first quarter, all freshmen will begin their first missions by shadowing licensed huntsmen. Class is dismissed."

Artyom sighed as he struggled to lift himself up, but a hand appeared in front of him and he gazed into Jaune's eyes. Embarrassment filled in the pit of his stomach, but Artyom took Jaune's hand anyway and he was immediately pulled up to his feet.

"T-Thank you," Artyom tried not to look at Jaune. I hate sparring class.

"Hey, you didn't do so bad yourself! I mean, considering we're the lowest-rated fighters in the freshmen class, that sparring match wasn't that bad."

Artyom narrowed his eyes. "You are above me. And you have a notorious reputation for being bad fighter."

"Uh, good point." Jaune, scratching his neck, smiled sheepishly. "Well, look on the bright side, a-at least you would do well in Atlas Academy!"

Jaune only received a stone stare from Artyom. 

"Okay, I just made things worse, didn't I?"

"Forget about it." Shaking his head, Artyom slung the VSV on his shoulder and made his way off the arena. It was on the ground floor that the rest of his team was waiting to greet him.

Yang was about to speak, but Artyom immediately raised a hand. "Not  _ one _ word from you."

"Hey," Yang raised her hand. "I may be a flirt, but there is a time and place for jokes, and I know this isn't one of them. You sure you still don't want to train with us at all?"

"My guns have served me well." Besides, Artyom was still intimidated by the fact these teenagers possessed superhuman abilities, even if he himself now had access to said abilities. "Why should I abandon what has worked for me all this time?"

Yang sighed, pointing to Jaune joining up with his team. "Maybe because this is the  _ second time _ you lost to literally the weakest―actually,  _ second _ weakest―guy in our class? I've seen you at the range and you're the best shot I've ever seen, but that doesn't mean anything if you don't know how to fight up close. Apparently, the Countrylands haven't taught you how to fight with a melee weapon."

Artyom unslinged his VSV and gestured at the trench knife attached underneath the barrel. "I have this."

Before Yang could respond, Ruby planted herself in front of her sister and glared at Artyom. "You think a tiny knife like  _ that _ is gonna kill a Grimm!?"

"Err," Her outburst threw Artyom's guard off. Is she going to do what I'm thinking she is going to do? "Yes?"

"That does it! I can't take it anymore," Ruby growled and snatched Artyom's wrist with surprising force. "Artyom, you're coming with me! We're going to  _ revamp  _ and  _ pretty up _ your ugly, stupid-excuse-for-guns, and you're gonna  _ like it _ ."

"I-I told you before, I am just fine with my equipment-"

"No ifs, buts, errs, or even nos! I had it with you trying to deny my requests to look at your guns!"

"They worked fine against the Grimm on our weekly field trips-"

"Please, a  _ freaking powder gun _ ? A dust round is  _ three times  _ the force of a powder round! I know you lived in the Countrylands and all, and may not always had access to dust bullets, but come on, you're in Beacon now! You need to get on with the times, Artyom!"

"Can my guns fire-"

"They would shatter if you even fired  _ one _ dust round from them. You know what I'm gonna do? I'm gonna  _ destroy _ those powder guns and rebuild them from the ground up into  _ proper _ guns  _ fit _ for a  _ hunter _ , Mister I-Don't-Need-No-Stinkin'-Dust-Guns!"

In spite of Ruby's fury, Artyom continued protesting as his leader pulled him out of the arena building and into the light. Students watched on in wonder as they saw a 17-year old boy being pulled forcibly by a shorter, 15-year old girl in an unknown direction. Artyom spotted some of their stares and tried to remind Ruby of their position, but the frustration radiating from the usually-shy girl was enough to keep Artyom's mouth shut. How can a 15-year old girl be this intimidating?

One minute had barely passed and already Artyom found himself being dragged through two double doors of a large building with the tips of multiple smoke stacks barely sticking out from his sight. His eyes widened in the recognition of this place. 

Upon entry, a symphony of welders, drills, hammers, and gunfire played throughout Beacon’s forge building. Looking around, Artyom thought the entire interior looked like a copy-paste of an old-world steel mill from the old pictures, especially since it was spacious and its machinery looked modern. On the other hand, he spotted anvils, bloomeries, and forges dotting around parts of the forge that seemed more appropriate for medieval times. If he had not thought he ended up in some science-fantasy world straight from a novel series, then this setup would probably had done it for him.

"Finally, we're here," Ruby smirked at Artyom. "I hope you don't mind me giving you a hands-on experience on  _ actual _ gunsmithing."

"You really  _ are _ going to destroy my guns, are you not?"

"They deserve it for being the  _ heathens _ they are! But don't worry, they'll be good as new and  _ far _ better than you'll think."

Standing behind the desk was a young, fresh-faced woman who appeared to be more interested in filing her nails than doing her job. However, when Ruby came up with Artyom in her death-grip, the lady instantly put down her filer and adopted a business smile for her.

“Hello, and welcome to the Beacon Academy Forge! How may I help you?”

Artyom was not terribly surprised by her act, but he remained silent as his furious leader virtually clamored access for one of the forge areas.

The lady nodded with a smile and, after several deft flicks of the holo-keyboard, brought up a plastic card from underneath the table. Ruby swiped it off the counter almost immediately and pulled Artyom away just as quick. (Artyom quickly cried out a thank you and the lady smiled back.)

As Ruby dragged him through various machinery and equipment, Artyom gazed around the forge. He had not visited this building before, so he found himself enamored with some of the machinery placed here. Artyom had recognized some of the heavy-duty equipment to be machining for gun parts, and then there were others so foreign to him an average METRO dweller might as well view it as a possession of the gods. 

When the duo arrived at their designated forge area, the sign interestingly labeled "Forge #13," Ruby broke off into a sprint and had already set to work on warming up the entire forge area. Artyom found himself sitting on a stool next to the workbench, observing Ruby activating some machines and warming up the forge with an automated bellows. Tools used for measuring and working hung from nearby tool-boards placed at specific areas next to the machines and forge. Suffice to say, Artyom thought this entire forge was well-equipped to build countless guns and ammo.

"Okay!" Ruby clapped her hands, immediately snatched Artyom's VSV from his backpack (receiving a surprised "Hey!" from him) and set it on the workbench. "So, what kind of weapon do you want to make with this," She glanced at the VSV with disdain.

"'VSV,'" Artyom said as he politely got off the stool.

Ruby occupied the stool with a nod. "VSV, yeah."

"I am fine with leaving my gun as it is-"

"Make it into a 'Silenced Subsonic Sniper-Yari,' got it, now what about your shotgun?"

"What the hell is a yari-"

"Oh, a 'Long-Ranged Automatic Bayonet-Gun' sounds good!"

"Ruby-"

"Hmm, your revolver's a bit hard to think of..."

"Ruby..."

"Now how about this: A 'High-Caliber Revolving Trench-Knife!' Or maybe 'High-Caliber Revolver Trench-Knife,' or what about 'High-Caliber Trench-Knife Revolver?' 'Carbine,' maybe?"

Artyom slammed a fist on the workbench. "Ruby, please listen to me!" I know you hate my guns, but at least hear me out!

"Artyom," Ruby crossed her arms and gazed at him with defiance. "You know your guns aren't up to snuff, so let me help you out! That's what teammates- no, that's what FRIENDS are for, right?"

Clenching his teeth, Artyom parted his lips for a no, but Ruby stared at him like a puppy. " _ Please _ , Artyom?" She got off the stool and cast her gaze onto the ground, twiddling her fingers. "I haven't built a gun in a while, a-and I don't want you to get hurt on a mission because you refused to let me help you out..."

She's using  _ that _ tactic, of all damn things? It was the  _ gaze _ that Artyom heard in rumors mostly from Yang, who claimed she could never resist the  _ gaze _ her little sister brought out every time she got in trouble. It was the  _ gaze _ that one could never break away from, and to stare into it would feel like an eternity. It was the  _ gaze _ that Artyom never thought he would see for himself, much less being a recipient of it.

And it was too damn  _ adorable _ to resist.

With a sigh, Artyom hung his head in defeat. "Fine, Ruby. You can do what you wish."

"Awesome!" Ruby squealed and embraced Artyom. "You're-the-bestest-friend-a-shy-girl like-me-can-ever-ask-for!"

Artyom blushed from the sudden contact. When was the last time I've been hugged like this? He swore that he might die from high-blood pressure if Ruby kept this up for a few more seconds.

Thankfully, Ruby let go―albeit, her cheeks reddened, possibly from the fact that she realized hugged a boy―and hopped onto the stool once more.

"I got it!" Ruby slammed a fist onto her palm. "Your revolver will be remade into a 'High-Caliber Single-Shot Carbine-Knife!" With a devious smile, she took a few tools from the workbench's tool-board and immediately began disassembling the VSV.

"Watch how a professional works."

* * *

For at least five hours, Ruby had been furiously working away on each of Artyom's guns. In that time span, her level of skill and expertise with disassembling his guns and rebuilding them from the ground up with stronger frames, tougher materials, and more complex parts had astonished him; Ruby could very well put  _ all _ of Armory Station to shame.

Artyom's VSV took a considerable amount of time, but in comparison to his Shambler, it was fairly reasonable. When Ruby had finished reassembling the gun and gave it to him, Artyom was surprised that the VSV still retained its form―only, it felt heavier, a bit larger than normal, not twice as big, but, if he had to guess, a quarter bigger in proportion, (though he supposed it was to ensure the gun would not break apart), and it had been given a new paint job of green camouflage. Although, he spotted a double-edged short-sword blade attached underneath the silenced barrel, which must had been the replacement for that other blade he stuck onto a while back.

His revolver took the least amount of time to disassemble, replace, add, modify, tweak, and reassemble. He was also surprised that it also looked similar to its previous form, but cleaned, strengthened and shiny as if it just made today; unsurprisingly, it also felt a bit heavier and looked proportionally bigger as well.

On the other hand, Artyom's Shambler took up most of those five hours, as Ruby was apparently making the most modifications to his shotgun. Still, when she finished up for the last time, Artyom looked at it and realized it was, visually, and perhaps internally, changed the most. The entire frame, even the stock and forend, had been replaced with sleek steel, with the makeshift revolving cylindrical chamber non-existent―apparently replaced by a more traditional gas-operated chamber. The frame also hid all the Shambler's inner workings, which, admittedly, actually made its form more pleasing to the eye. Speaking of form, the shape had remained similar, although with the original barrel being replaced with a much longer barrel, and the frame's underside extending a bit farther than the original, the Shambler now looked more like a rifle made out of steel than its initial form.

Artyom glanced at Ruby, who was drinking a bottle of water before wiping her forehead off with a handkerchief. "Whew! That took a bit longer than I would've liked, but I'm done. What do you think?"

"Um," To be honest, Artyom was not sure what had Ruby done to his guns other than giving them far stronger frames and cleaned looks. "They still look... similar before you changed them. Apart from my Shambler, that is."

"Your shotgun's pretty much up to huntsman standards," She grinned. "Though with all of the moving parts and stuff, which is pretty complicated for a powder gun, I was kinda more interested in just improving its design without putting an actual melee weapon inside."

Ruby grabbed the Shambler and showed it to Artyom. "It can fire at longer ranges and still retain its stopping power, plus you can retract the bayonet whenever you want by pressing," She pointed at a button on the left side of the trigger handle. "This."

Curious, Artyom was given the Shambler and he held it as he normally would. Pressing the button with his thumb, a blade long enough to classify as a shortsword on its own popped out from underneath the barrel.

"Your revolver," Ruby also picked up his revolver. "Can now double as a knife! It's just like your shotgun, just press the button on the side of the trigger handle."

In demonstration, Ruby held the revolver like a rifle and pressed the button. Within moments, the revolver shifted backwards, allowing Artyom's newly-forged trench knife to pop out in its place; although, the revolver's barrel tucked itself horizontally underneath the blade, and the trigger handle and forend shifted into a makeshift knife-handle with a trigger.

Artyom was impressed that Ruby could make these mods all by herself. Looks like she must've had years of experience in toying with guns.

"And last, but not least!" After she transformed the revolver back into its gun form, Ruby presented Artyom's primary weapon. "Your VSV―or should I say SSSY?―can not only accept dust rounds, as with your other guns, it can transform into this!"

With the press of the button on the trigger handle's side, Artyom watched in amazement as his VSV transformed into a polearm. Its entire frame had been stretched out, with the magazine underneath the makeshift shaft, as a large, double-edged short-sword blade popped out at the top of the pole. From the length of the spear-like weapon, Artyom guessed it was a foot higher than him.

"Pretty cool, huh?" Ruby grinned wide. "I didn't want to sacrifice power just so you can fire your VSV in its yari form, so I decided to have the blade attach itself to the barrel and hide the trigger so you wouldn't misfire on accident."

"Yes, um," Artyom was not sure what to say actually. "It is..."

"Is it too much?" Ruby stared at him in concern.

He shook his head. "Well, not for my Shambler and revolver, but I do not how to wield a spear. What made you think I could?"

Ruby then chuckled. "Oh, that? Pfft, I already got that covered from the very start! Guess who's gonna teach you how to wield the yari!?"

"Err," Am I going to regret asking the identity of my teacher? "Professor Bonaparte?"

Ruby's eyes widened with dread. "N-No no no no, not her! I wouldn't put you through  _ that _ kind of torture! She'll kill you on the first week, and you're from the Countrylands!"

Even if Ruby was not aware of where Artyom really came from, if had learned one important detail about their  _ Huntsman Tactics & Stratagems _ professor, it was that she was  _ brutally _ efficient, even by METRO standards. And he was glad Ruby did not say she was to be his teacher. (Admittedly, Professor Bonaparte was also a genius at her profession; he can recall at least a few useful tactics he learned from her lectures.)

"Then, who is my teacher?"

"You're looking at her!" Ruby smiled wide as she spread her arms out. "From now on, you must call me  _ Sensei Rose _ , my young grasshopper!" But then she lowered her arms and furrowed her brows. "Or was it young padawan...?"

Incidentally, Ruby was really the only person Artyom had spoken to on a casual, semi-regular basis, so he did not find it surprising that she volunteered to teach him how to handle this... yari weapon (which looked more like a spear to him, than anything else). Still, a chance to have step up from being the lowest ranked fighter in all of the freshman class was better than anything.

Besides, perhaps I shouldn't have been so fearful of learning from these students after all. If I'm going to be stuck on Remnant for all of my life, I think it would be best for me to learn as much as I can to adopt their ways of fighting the Grimm.

With a deep breath, Artyom nodded at her. "Alright, Sensei Rose, I accept your tutelage."

For a moment, Ruby stared at him in shock. Then she grinned as wide as she could and pulled Artyom into a firm hug.

"Thank-you-thank-you-thank-you-I'll-be-sure-to-be-the-best-sensei-you-can-possibly-ask-for!"

Artyom chuckled as he returned the hug without issue. He had not felt this way since his mother-

Mother. I wish you could see me right now.

Shrugging his thoughts away, Artyom broke from the embrace and glanced at his transformed VSV. "Ruby? I rather not spoil the moment, but this is a spear- yari- whatever you call it, and you wield a scythe."

"Pfft!" Ruby waved him off with a smirk. "So I wield a scythe, what's the difference? They're both polearms, right? It shouldn't be  _ that _ hard to teach you!"

Once again, Artyom was reminded of how young Ruby's mind was. It reminded him of himself―before his mother's death.


End file.
